


A Winter's Tale

by journalxxx



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 19:45:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17432378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/journalxxx/pseuds/journalxxx
Summary: On the anticlimactic victory on a Deerclops, the destiny of its spoils, and the heartfelt celebration that followed.





	A Winter's Tale

"...Oh no."  
  
Wilson's blood ran cold when he saw the destroyed drying racks and unearthed berry bushes. A row of thick icicles emerged straight from the earth, each one as tall as himself, disrupting the ground around the northern side of the camp, and nowhere else. He looked around frantically, but there were no other traces of the passage of the giant anywhere.  
  
"It was a Deerclops, then." Wendy remarked with her usual detachment towards all things tragic and monstruous. Wilson had to reluctantly agree with her: if it roared from almost a kilometre away like a Deerclops, and left trails of deadly ice in its wake like a Deerclops, it was probably a Deerclops. Webber and Wickerbottom put down their baskets of freshly shaved beefalo fur, and they all moved to inspect the base.  
  
"Maxwell? Wigfrid? Wolfgang?" Wilson called out, but he received no answer. The rest of the camp was undamaged, but also completely deserted, the missing survivors' tents empty.  
  
"Wilson! Here!"  
  
Webber was pointing at the side of the biggest chest near Wilson's alchemy engine. Crudely scribbled on it with a piece of charcoal that lay abandoned on the ground, there were only two huge words: _Don't follow_. The scientist recognised Maxwell's handwriting immediately. The way his usually flourished letters were deformed by the clear hurry and the roughness of the writing instrument made Wilson's chest constrict painfully.  
  
"...Oh no."  
  
"Wilson. I believe we don't have too many reasons for concern, all things considered."  
  
"Is that so?" Wilson inquired distractedly, more out of politeness than real interest. Wickerbottom's firm tone was often enough to call anyone to attention, but at the moment he was slightly preoccupied with examining the disastrous scenario of Maxwell and a Deerclops meeting eye to eye. No pun intended.  
  
"Indeed. The camp is almost untouched, meaning that the others must have managed to flee before the beast could catch them unprepared here. Some weapons, armor and food are missing. Maxwell even had enough time to leave a message. They must have seen it coming, and thought of a plan to deal with it."  
  
"...I guess so." Wilson was squinting at the horizon, trying to spot any sign of the beast. How did such a humongous creature vanish from sight in an area with no mountains or slopes? Maybe he could be able to spot the beacon created by its eye after the sunset...  
  
"Your meat statue is intact too. Clearly there haven't been any victims yet, and that leaves them some wiggle room for whatever strategy they may be employing."  
  
"That's true." One meat statue. Just one, for three endangered people. Not nearly enough, if things went wrong. And- well, it was both a relief and an anguish to realize that evidence pointed at Maxwell as the most vulnerable element in the trio. He would probably be fine if he died first, but what of the others? Or what if, by some bizarre trick of fate, he were to perish after-  
  
"Wilson." Wickerbottom's hand landed on his shoulder, interrupting his spiralling thoughts. "I hope you aren't thinking of looking for them."  
  
"Well, what else are we supposed to do?" Wilson blurted out, maybe a tad too harshly, as he was already checking the contents of his own backpack. Not enough healing salve, a damaged log armor, the pan flute- how did it get there? Would it be effective against a Deerclops? "They might need help- hell, who wouldn't-"  
  
"They left us a clear indication as to what we should be doing, namely waiting. Moreover, it's getting dark. I'm not going to lead a couple of children into battle against a wrathful monster in the middle of the night."  
  
"I would never ask you to do such a thing, but I cannot simply wait here-"  
  
"Young man, clearly you are not a fool nor a daredevil, so please refrain from acting as one. I won't let you wander off without direction in the darkness either." Her eyes became more sympathetic. "I'm sure they have the situation under control. Between Maxwell's resourcefulness and Wigfrid and Wolfgang's prowess, I'll be surprised if we won't see them all come back tomorrow by dawn."  
  
Wilson had to admit it made sense. He dreaded to think of what would have happened if the monster had targeted their group instead of the camp. A team made up of an old lady, two kids and a scrawny scientist had considerably fewer chances than one counting a veritable Valkyrie, a reborn Hercules and a scrawny magician. He couldn't help but be deeply concerned for his scrawny counterpart, though. He glanced at his surroundings again. The darkness was rapidly falling, as thick as oil, and no red glows were visible anywhere.  
  
"...You are right. We should at least wait until morning before doing anything."  
  
The evening passed with excruciating slowness, bearing no signs or sounds of ongoing battles from any direction. Wilson forced himself to swallow a sad excuse for a portion of meatballs, repeating himself that he'd need to be in good shape the following morning to search for his comrades. He would also need to be well-rested, as Wickerbottom thoughtfully reminded him, but he couldn't bring himself to sleep just yet. He waited, a spear clutched in his hand and huddled close to the fire, making sure the flame was always as high as safety allowed, at least to provide a visible landmark to ease the trip of whoever might, hopefully, be returning.  


* * *

  
"...And this is why I insist you never let your beard grow too much."  
  
Wilson jolted awake with a gasp, finding himself exceedingly bent forwards, his face looming dangerously over the warm embers. He tightened his grasp on the spear he was loosely hanging onto when he must have dozed off, suddenly feeling as if he was about to fall, but two hands gripped his shoulders tightly, steadying him. They were as hard as flint and just as cold, their fingers roughly shaped and sharp. They weren't the kind of hands anyone ever wished to be touched by, but in that moment they were all Wilson was praying for. He blindly squeezed their owner's arm, breathing a sigh of relief.  
  
"Oh, thank God."  
  
"I swear, if you manage to die by faceplanting into a fire pit or setting your head on fire after surviving everything I've thrown at you, I'm going to be massively disappointed."  
  
Maxwell plopped down on the log beside him with a groan. Wilson quickly scanned him from head to toe, noticing a comforting lack of bloodstains and torn fabric.  
  
"Are you all right? Where are the others?"  
  
"Yes, and there." Maxwell pointed behind himself. Indeed, Wolfgang and Wigfrid were striding into the camp chatting enthusiastically, a victorious smile on their faces and several huge chunks of meat in their arms. They nodded at Wilson when their gazes met.  
  
"Wilsön! Fear nöt, the beast is slain! We thank yöu for hölding döwn the fört."  
  
"Ehr, don't mention it. Are you two all right?"  
  
"Do not worry, tiny man! Monster was mighty, but we were more mighty!"  
  
"They may have a bruise or two on them. Nothing too drastic though, everything went surprisingly smoothly." Maxwell commented, throwing some wood into the fire pit and raising a small puff of crackling sparkles.  
  
"I guess I'd better go check on them. Are you sure you're not injured?" Wilson asked, squeezing the man's shoulder, with the tone of someone who didn't quite doubt the certainty of his claim so much as its sincerity.  
  
"Not even a scratch. Go do your thing, I'll help myself to some grub."  
  
The two fierce combatants were indeed almost unscathed, save for few negligible cuts here and there that didn't even require any stitches. Wilson almost couldn't believe that just the three of them had managed to take down a Deerclops that easily - well, it surely couldn't have been easy, but they seemed to have fared fantastically. Wickerbottom joined them briefly to congratulate them on the heroic deed, and soon they all headed back to their own tents for a well-deserved rest. Wilson, instead, joined Maxwell near the fire, where he was still busy munching on some jerky.  
  
"...You're going to be the death of me, you know?"  
  
"Curious. I could swear I've already been that. Multiple times. Too may to count."  
  
"What did I say about joking on murders? Especially mine?"  
  
"'One of these days I'll introduce you to their parents.' No, wait. That was about child abduction."  
  
Wilson casually, accidentally, so very clumsily, elbowed Maxwell on the head as he sat down beside him.  
  
"Really, though. _Don't follow_. Talk about ominous. I'm surprised your flair for melodrama didn't compel you to splash some blood around the message."  
  
Maxwell snorted, idly tearing apart the jerky into smaller strips before popping them in his mouth.  
  
"I'm sorry for neglecting to write you a ten-page essay detailing our current predicament and the several coping options that occurred to me, but I was a tad pressed for time."  
  
"How did you defeat it though?" Wilson mused, wrapping his arm around the other's waist. Maxwell dusted some invisible crumbles of food off his hands.  
  
"As much as I'd love to boast about my impeccable strategy, I'm afraid our greatest asset was luck. I had just loaded up on fuel, Wolfgang was in top shape and Wigfrid- well, I don't know, I guess she felt especially inspired for today's performance. I kept the beast's attacks focussed on a veritable swarm of puppets while the two brutes merrily hacked at it, et voilà."  
  
"Impressive." Wilson smiled. On a whim, he took the liberty of reaching beneath Maxwell's jacket, swiftly slipping the small wooden box from the inner pocket. "This calls for a celebration, I suppose."  
  
"Hey, that's the last one-"  
  
"Winter's Feast is almost upon us. I'm sure you'll find more in your gifts."  
  
There was indeed a single cigar left in the box. Maxwell raised an eyebrow, halfway between surprised and irked, but he didn't move to stop him. Or, at least, he didn't until the scientist brought the cigar to his mouth to cut it.  
  
"Not with your _teeth_ , you _animal_!" Maxwell snapped, snatching it back so quickly that Wilson almost couldn't see it. He turned it over in his hand with a scowl, inspecting the surface to make sure there were no untoward indents. "Could you possibly be more uncivilized?"  
  
...All right, he may have done that on purpose. Wilson barely held back a smile as he watched Maxwell press the sharp tip of his claw to the head of the cigar and rotate it with few rapid, expert movements, neatly piercing the outer layer. When he removed his finger, the hole was almost perfectly circular. He put the cigar in his mouth while he grabbed the tongs and selected a dark red ember from the firepit. He held the tip of the cigar above it, rolling it over the scorching charcoal without quite touching it, just close enough for the heat to sear the outer rim. His lips curled around the base as he drew small, rhythmic puffs to feed the fire, thick whiffs of smoke escaping from the corners of his mouth. It took Maxwell a good minute to light his cigar properly, but Wilson didn't mind: he could have spent the whole night watching that entrancing sight, and he would have called it a night well spent. When he was done, the scientist reached out to take the cigar, but his hand was unceremoniously swatted away.  
  
"I changed my mind. You don't deserve it."  
  
"Oh, come on." He protested, to no avail. He pouted and moved to stand up. "All right then, I guess I may as well go to bed. Enjoy your smoke."  
  
"Hang on, you spoiled brat. I do have something for you." Maxwell simply grabbed him by his shoulder and dragged him back down, almost toppling him over. Wilson watched curiously as he rummaged in his backpack, only to pull out...  
  
"Wow. An eye. You _really_ shouldn't have."  
  
"Not just any eye. I snagged it before Wigfrid could gobble it down like a common meatball. There are much better uses for this than consumption."  
  
"Such as? A pair of glasses for you? Heavens, the lens must be massive..." Wilson took the Deerclops eyeball, and almost dropped it by accident. It was bigger than his own head, and unexpectedly heavy and slippery. His deformed reflection eerily stared back at him from the huge pupil.  
  
"No, no, Deerclopes are as blind as moles. I'm talking about weapons. This thing shoots lasers, pal! I'm sure that a genius of your caliber can come up with wondrous applications for such an extraordinary resource."  
  
"I'm sensing several things in your last statement. First, sarcasm. Second, prevarication. What do _you_ want me to do with it?"  
  
Maxwell grinned. "How about an automated defense mechanism?"  
  
"Uh...." Wilson blinked. "I fear you may be genuinely overestimating the 'caliber of my genius'. I don't see how I could turn this into anything like that."  
  
"You don't see it yet, but you'll come round to my point of view as soon as you step close enough to an Ancient Station, I'm sure."  
  
"You want to go to the Ruins? You hate it down there."  
  
"I don't think they're even remotely as intriguing as you and Wickerbottom claim, and they're way too dangerous for pointless sightseeing. But there are valuable materials and knowledge to be found, if one knows where to look."  
  
"Hm..." Wilson examined the odd bulb more closely. Maxwell once said that those things were imperishable, and, seeing one from up close, Wilson could understand why. It must have been severed from the beast's carcass at the very least an hour earlier, but it was still warm and vital. A rich network of capillaries and arterioles carried bright red and oxigenated blood to each region of the eye, despite the clear lack of a systemic circulation. The stump of the optic nerve emerging from the back didn't bleed nor it appeared damaged, it just ended cleanly as if it had never been any longer. The whole surface of the eye was uniformly moist, keeping it well hydrated and protected from the outer environment. Maxwell could be onto something, there must still be a great deal of magic coursing through the organ to keep it so perfectly preserved and functional.  
  
He tilted the fascinating specimen sideways, admiring the visible crypts adorning the iris and the round recess of the pupil, almost expecting the eye to spontaneously roll between his hands to focus its gaze back on him. "...We'll see. If it can still shoot, it's a good idea to experiment away from the base anyway, just in case."  
  
When he finally raised his gaze from the eye, he noticed that Maxwell was staring at him. A hand supporting his chin, a thin strand of smoke rising up from his cigar, a small, amused smile softening his usually sharp features.  
  
"...What?" Wilson asked, a faint warmth raising to his cheeks. Maxwell shook his head silently, but he didn't stop studying him. "What is it?" Wilson asked again.  
  
"You have a certain look about you, when you put your hands on a new toy."  
  
"What sort of look?" Wilson pressed, while Maxwell retrieved the eye and carefully put it back in his own backpack.  
  
"...A good one."  
  
It always caught him off guard, when Maxwell decided to simply offer him a compliment instead of hiding it behind a barricade of prickly sarcasm. It wasn't terribly uncommon, not any more, but it still felt somewhat unexpected. Wilson didn't quite know how to reply as Maxwell resumed smoking quietly, staring idly at the darkness, the fingers of his free hand tapping an unrecognisable pattern on his knee. It caught Wilson's attention and he stopped to wonder, for maybe the hundredth time, how those dangerously sharp claws didn't accidentally poke holes into the fine fabric, or into Maxwell's own paper-thin skin. He lay his own hand on Maxwell's, his palm curling over his wrist and his fingers barely brushing his lumpy knuckles.  
  
"...I'm glad you're all right."  
  
He watched in fascination as the unyielding black shadow covering Maxwell's limb quivered and dissolved beneath Wilson's touch, slowly and neatly, like ice melting near a dwarf star. The solid darkness gradually receded completely, slithering away under the cuff of Maxwell's jacket, exposing the warm, pale skin and bony joints therein. Wilson ran his fingertip along the back of Maxwell's hand, following the prominent lines of the tendons back and forth.  
  
"As am I." Maxwell murmured, observing the process as well with some sort of languid interest. Wilson wanted to kiss him, he surely would have, but just a moment before he did, Maxwell offered him the cigar. The shadows had retreated from the other hand too, leaving it bare and white and soft, pinching the cigar between two long, lithe fingers. No doubt he intended to simply hand it to Wilson, but it just so happened that Maxwell was holding it just at the right angle and height for Wilson to take a drag directly from Maxwell's hand, so he did. He leisurely let his mouth curl around the wrapper and pulled a generous puff; it was decidedly not by accident that his lips brushed Maxwell's fingers too. He savoured the familiar bitterness of the smoke, letting it warm and tickle his tongue before exhaling slowly. It was an acquired taste, and by far not the strangest one he had developed in the last months.  
  
"Thank you." Regrettably, Maxwell didn't seem especially impressed by Wilson's gesture, but he did take his next drag remarkably quickly, almost as soon as Wilson's lips left the cigar.  
  
Wilson had no idea how late it was, probably very much so, but neither of them was in any particular rush to sleep. They sat in front of the dying fire for a long while, quietly sharing the smoke and the company. Wilson kept caressing the other man's hand absently, and eventually Maxwell's arm found its way around his shoulders, pulling him closer. His shoulder was just at the perfect height for Wilson to comfortably rest his head against it, and it would have been foolish not to take advantage of such a convenient arrangement.  
  
"...It was early. The Deerclops, I mean." Wilson sighed, leaning heavily against Maxwell as the tiredness of the day suddenly caught up with him. "I'm not sure winter has even started yet. And it showed up in broad daylight instead of at night, with no warning whatsoever."  
  
"Things are changing." Maxwell conceded gravely, briefly squeezing his shoulder. "I guess the Constant doesn't quite live up to its name any longer."  
  
"To be honest, it was never fitting to begin with."  
  
"Everyone's a critic." Maxwell rolled his eyes impatiently, then he smirked. "It's supposed to be a joke, you know? And a rather witty one, if I say so myself."  
  
"I don't get it, and I'm fairly well-versed in puns and the like."  
  
"You aren't exactly the intended audience."  
  
Wilson side-eyed him, a sharp retort forming on the tip of his tongue, but he thought better of saying it. Because that, with Maxwell so close to him and so miraculously unharmed and so good-naturedly playful and so delightfully bathed by the faint light of the fire, that was an excellent moment for a kiss. He closed the gap between them, and relished Maxwell's immediate response, as if they had reached the same conclusion at the same time. Their heads were already bent at the right, well-learnt angles when their mouths touched, their lips already parted and inviting. Their tongues were tinged with the same smoky taste, their cheeks equally red and warm. It was Maxwell who broke that perfect symmetry, his hand sliding up Wilson's shoulder, brushing against his neck and cupping his nape, his fingers burrowing through that lush mess of hair to hold him even closer. It felt perfect, in a way that very few moments were allowed to feel, and Wilson, in his remarkable wisdom, eventually interrupted it himself before some other unexpected accident could, as it was inevitable.  
  
"Things are changing." Wilson repeated as he pulled back gently, just slightly out of breath, his hands barely slipping beneath the hems of Maxwell's jacket. "But we are adapting too."  
  
"And we're making a damn good job at that." Maxwell was, as experience had proved over and over again, almost completely impervious to wisdom. He kissed Wilson again, more fervently, teasing his lower lip with his teeth, tempting him with the prospect and the memory of a much more enjoyable lapse of judgement, and Wilson couldn't help but respond with equal passion. He embraced him fully, almost ready to climb on his lap then and there, to flick the cigar off of that stubborn hand that still wasn't touching him, so that it could be put to better use.  
  
The mandatory interruption the universe sent their way manifested as a loud snort coming from somewhere behind them, in the general area of the tents. Just Wolfgang snoring away, Wilson recognized, a very mild and inconsequential hitch in what was turning out to be a very promising sequence of events. Nevertheless, that minor hindrance was enough to make Maxwell positively leap away from him, breaking the kiss and the hug with almost offensive speed. The man had no qualms with discussing the goriest details of monster creation and human dismemberment in front of an audience composed of both children and his own victims, and yet God forbid anyone ever saw him indulging in any sort of softer emotion, not even of the most morally questionable kind. Luckily for him, Wilson was not only wise, but also exceedingly forgiving. He chuckled, earning himself a piqued glare, which he easily defused with a firm caress along the other's thigh.  
  
"Have you warmed up enough?"  
  
"I have the strong feeling that, regardless of my answer, you're about to delight me with a brilliant double entendre on how I could achieve an optimal body temperature."  
  
Wilson laughed and lay a quick kiss on his cheek before standing up.  
  
"I'll be with you in a minute."  
  
Maxwell gave him a look and stood up as well, stretching his back and walking back to his tent. It was a bit separate from the others, barely within the range of the light from the pit and half-hidden from view from the designated sleeping area by a bunch of assorted machinery. The optimal placement for both solitary meditation and companionable deviance. Wilson threw one of the bigger, greener logs in the pit, so that it would hopefully last until morning. He grabbed a lantern and two hot thermal stones and headed to the tent as well.  
  
Maxwell was already getting undressed, swiftly removing his collar in the barely safe glow that filtered through the fabric, and Wilson had to pause for a moment to take in the sudden intimacy of the atmosphere. Maxwell threw a questioning glance at him, and Wilson shook his head with a small smile. He placed the lit lantern on the ground, and one stone at each side of the fur roll, to ward off both the darkness and the late autumn chill. Unfortunately, by the time he was sprawled on the mat, as ready as he'd ever be and as naked as the day he was born, Maxwell had only divested himself of his shoes, jacket, tie, and waistcoat. Wilson groaned in exasperation as, as per habit, Maxwell unbuttoned his shirt with methodical, painstaking slowness, taking care of straightening it out afterwards, and fastidiously draped it on a wire hanger - a _wire hanger_ , of all things. Where had that infuriating man even found a damn wire hanger in a place like that?  
  
"If we could conclude or at least start this before dawn, I would appreciate it immensely."  
  
"Hush, you." He glared at Wilson, or at least he tried to, as Wilson could see his train of thought derail spectacularly before the full display of the scientist's graces. He did, however, recover his scowl when his gaze landed on the bunch of balled-up clothes Wilson had unceremoniously shoved in a corner of the tent. "...You are wholly undeserving of the few mercies I have bestowed upon this land."  
  
"What? What are you talking about?"  
  
"Your clothes, you lout! You treat them like rags because you already know every tear and stain will eventually fix itself. The sheer nerve of you lot..."  
  
"Wait... You made it so?" Wilson blinked. "I thought it just sort of... happened."  
  
Maxwell snorted. He undid his belt and slid it out of the loops with a single, smooth gesture, then inserted the end into the buckle a few times over, neatly rolling it on itself with equally practiced movements that, for utterly unfathomable reasons, stirred a vague turmoil below Wilson's stomach.  
  
"Nothing 'just sort of happens' here. I specifically devised a way to make everyone's clothes - just the ones you wore when you arrived here, mind you - somewhat indestructible because I was tired of seeing every goddamn idiot on this existential plane frolick around wearing garments made of foliage or badly sewn ponchos, if not almost completely naked."  
  
"...What?" Wilson gaped, unable to believe his ears. Maxwell went on, undeterred.  
  
"You heard me. Out of pure kindness, I also granted a touch of color to whatever tasteless hand-made piece of wearable garbage you crafted - or do you really think that beefalo wool naturally turns red and blue the moment you baptize it as a winter hat? This might be a veritable hell of pain and despair, but it doesn't need to be utterly _unsightly_ as well - what _the hell_ is wrong with you, now?" Maxwell snapped, seeing as Wilson had started laughing like a lunatic about halfway through his tirade. And he kept going and going, shaking uncontrollably and holding his belly, unable to even try to contain the noise. He just couldn't help it. He couldn't even see, his eyes filled with literal tears and his facial muscles sore from the strain. When he emerged from his bout of hilarity, gasping for air, Maxwell was glaring at him, fingers tapping in annoyance on his crossed arms.  
  
"Are you quite done?" That was all Wilson needed to start giggling again like an overexcited toddler. Maxwell rolled his eyes, motioning to grab his shirt. "All right, fine, I'll be in your tent when you're done with- whatever this is supposed to-"  
  
Wilson leapt on his knees, grabbing Maxwell's wrists and preventing him from undoing the hard-earned progress he had made with undressing himself. He pulled him down until they both fell sitting on the mat, still cackling madly, and threw his arms around him, effectively trapping him on the spot.  
  
"I actually used to be afraid of you, you know?" He laughed against the other man's neck. "Honest-to-God terrified. I used to think that torturing me was your only purpose and source of joy-"  
  
"God, I know. Good times, weren't they? When the mere thought of stealing my last cigar or laughing in my face would have warranted you the most unimaginable pain humanly-"  
  
"-While you were actually busy employing the full extent of your dreadful, devious powers to make sure I _respected your dress code_ -" Wilson snickered, before Maxwell decided to put an end to his nonsense by shutting his mouth with a kiss. It was much unlike their earlier kisses: it was fierce and hungry, imposing even, an urgent call to attention that Wilson immediately abided to. Maxwell's hands roamed over his back, swiftly sliding down to squeeze both his buttocks possessively.  
  
"Cheeky." Wilson smiled, forcing Maxwell's mouth to redirect its ministrations to his jaw, brushing his lips against that decidedly overgrown stubble that Maxwell loved so much, whether he cared to admit it or not.  
  
"Fooling around in my tent at night stark naked, _that_ 's cheeky." Maxwell retorted testily, digging his fingers in the dip of Wilson's lower back, massaging it in a way that drew a soft moan out of him and made him press their bodies closer against one another. That reminded Wilson very clearly of exactly how large of a portion of Maxwell's body was still regrettably covered by fabric, namely almost all of it, and he decided to take the pressing matter in his own hands. He hastily unbuttoned Maxwell's union suit and peeled it off his upper half - bare skin, at last! - leaving it hanging around the waistline as he stopped to take in the sight of Maxwell's torso.  
  
It always took him a moment to overcome the disquieting sense of frailty that those prominent bones and scarce flesh instilled in him, but he was getting better at it. Wilson kissed the hollow of Maxwell's throat, descending from there along the line of his sternum, nuzzling the barest hint of hair that graced his lover's chest as he pressed his hands just above his navel, against his stomach. He briefly marveled at the clear pulse of the aorta he could feel beneath his palm. In fact, Wilson was sure that one could very well write an entire anatomy dissertation just by _looking_ at the man's body, seeing how admirably exposed and evident so many of his features were. The sharp angles of his clavicles, the jutting chords of his sternocleidomastoids, the defined profile of each rib, the deep blue veins standing out on the pale skin of his inner wrists and elbow pits, the pronounced dip of his anatomical snuffbox that was so clearly visible when he bent a shadow to his will with few precise hand gestures, were only few of the many small delights a keen eye and mouth could appreciate on Maxwell's physique. Wilson let one such mouth linger there, laying kiss after kiss on the slightly sagging skin covering his thin pectorals, worrying the small nipples with playful flickers of his tongue. He spread his hands on Maxwell's sides, letting his palms curl around the outline of his ribcage and following it back to his spine, back and forth, taking a fond note of the expansion of the man's chest with each breath. He felt Maxwell sigh and hold his head close, both hands digging in his hair and lightly scratching his scalp. He had a thing for messing with Wilson's hair, just like he had a thing for messing with Wilson in general, and the scientist, patient as he was, sometimes just let him do that.  
  
The diversion was pleasant, but Wilson had yet to achieve his goal. Eventually, he unbuttoned Maxwell's trousers and pulled them down, together with the rest of the bunched up underwear and, after some less than elegant manouvres that earned him a few disgrunted grumbles, he was finally able to triumphantly tear off the garments from Maxwell's legs.  
  
"Don't-!" Maxwell preemptively snapped, fully expecting Wilson to add his precious trousers to the untidy pile of his own mistreated clothes, but Wilson knew better. He stood up and straightened up the fine garment, folding it neatly in half and draping it on the wire hanger as well. He even folded up the underwear and placed in Maxwell's personal chest. When he looked back at Maxwell, the unguarded fondness he could read in his eyes informed him of the correctness of his approach. The way to some men's heart was through their stomach, and the way to some others' was preserving their wardrobe selection from creases and disarray.  
  
"Come here." Maxwell invited him, and Wilson gladly complied. Finally, finally he could feel the whole of his lover's body bared against him, finally he could relish the riveting friction of skin against skin, all the way down to their most intimate spots. There were more kisses, more and more kisses, hungry and teasing and languid and wanton, kisses that Wilson never seemed to get tired of. He cupped Maxwell's jaws, he felt their sharp outline under his fingertips as he tipped the other man's head at just the perfect angle to deepen the kiss as much as possible, loving how Maxwell's tongue responded in kind to his well-meaning intrusion, loving how other notable parts of both their bodies responded as well to the sweet attention. Unthinkingly, he wrapped his arm around the other's waist and rocked his hips firmly against him, earning himself a throaty groan that would surely come back to haunt him in his dreams.  
  
That seemed to inspire Maxwell to move further along the list of the many delightful steps that ought to compose a fully satisfying encounter between two similarly inclined gentlemen. He coaxed Wilson down on the fur roll, his long limbs perched possessively above him, to which Wilson had no objection whatsoever. Maxwell kissed him again, his mouth, his beard, his neck, leaving a trail of tingling wetness wherever he landed, tilting his head in the most comfortable position by lightly grabbing the scientist's hair - heavens, it must be a veritable mess by now, he'd better remember to wake up earlier to fix it first thing in the morning - while Wilson could do little more than enjoy that ravenous attention. Maxwell didn't stop there, apparenly hellbent on tasting every square inch of Wilson's skin, and he then descended to his chest. His mouth spent a delightful eternity toying with Wilson's nipples, while his hands roamed freely on the soft expanse of his abdomen, his fingers carding through the dark hair, first disrupting and then smoothing down the natural trail of the strands. Wilson moaned softly when those clever hands started exploring his groin, tickling the dark curls there too and stopping just short of reaching his erection, deviating then towards his thighs and hips. Wilson was indeed patient, but he was not above pushing that maddening man's head further down the road towards their common goal. Maxwell snorted and smirked at him.  
  
"Yes?" Maxwell mocked, resting his chin on Wilson's stomach, gracing him with a look of affected curiosity. As a reply, Wilson unceremoniously thrusted his hips upwards against the man's chest.  
  
"Oh. Mh. I see." Maxwell sat up and studied the evident problem with an expression that gave Wilson the sudden urge to kiss him and slap him at the same time. Maxwell had a wide range of expressions that caused that same reaction, in fact, and Wilson was in the middle of recalling a good dozen of them when suddenly Maxwell bent down, licked his lips - no less - and took the whole of Wilson's length in his mouth.  
  
" _Ngkh_ \- God-" Wilson eloquently declared, grasping at the fur beneath him with both hands. He would never get used to that, he would never be able to take in the sight of his own cock just _disappearing_ into another man's mouth like that without having to remind himself that the act did not, in fact, conflict with any anatomical notion in his possession. That Maxwell could do it without any preparation or without gagging even slightly was a bit harder to swallow - _ah!_ \- but he'd rather not question that side of the issue at all. Maxwell stopped, with Wilson's cock firmly slotted in his throat, and _looked at him_ , straight in the eye, as he slowly pulled away, his red, swollen lips sliding wetly along the engorged organ. It felt and looked obscenely good, and utterly sinful, and Wilson enjoyed it fully, daring the heavens to throw him in a deeper hell that the one he'd already lived in, before the devil himself unexpectedly switched sides. He kept watching in utter fascination as Maxwell's lips lingered on his tip, giving it a light suck before relishing it completely. Then they disappeared from the view, dipping lower, lavishing small pecks and quick licks around the base of his testicles. Wilson closed his eyes, already way in over his head, thighs trembling with pleasure and breath hitching with each tantalizing touch of that devious mouth. Maxwell's hands were light on his hips, leaving him perfectly free to move and thrust at his leisure, had he wanted to, and that somehow made the whole experience even more torturous. He kept himself still, letting his pleasure build while Maxwell's mouth toyed with him, producing a variety of wet sounds that seemed absurdly loud in the complete silence. He waited as the warm wetness of his tongue slowly made its way to his cock again, around the base, along the lower side, up to the tip, almost- almost taking him in again, but at that point Wilson realised that he wasn't sure he'd be able to-  
  
"Wait." He gasped, suddenly grasping Maxwell's shoulder. "I want..."  
  
One day. One day, maybe, he'd work out a fitting way to ask another man to sodomize him, provided he miraculously managed to survive long enough. Until that fateful day, though, he could count on Maxwell to cleverly fill the blanks using the subtle context clues a naked, panting, aroused, spread-legged mess of a man generously offered. Maxwell hummed, giving Wilson a moment of respite as he rummaged into his chest to get the improvised lubricant that Wilson had fashioned out of phlegma and Glommer's goop, and that Maxwell had agreed to try only after much, much persuasion. Soon, too soon, there were slick fingers carefully prodding at his rear. They did not do this terribly often, since life in the Constant tended to drain people of energy and time for leisurely activities at the end of a hard day's work, but it was often often enough for Wilson to abundantly know and eagerly await what was next. Nevertheless, it never failed to give him pause, how he longed to feel Maxwell's touch more deeply than he'd ever imagined he could possibly want to be touched. The first finger was cautious, delicate, not quite pleasant yet, but stimulating, shifting the focus of Wilson's senses from his front to his rear, rekindling the memory of the whole array of overpowering sensations that could be evoked from there. When the second joined, things got more interesting, as the dastardly duo started prodding around, looking for a certain gland that Maxwell located with such prowess and speed that would put a trained professional to shame. Wilson groaned, his hips automatically tilting in response to the strong feeling, and Maxwell's expression, almost eerily observant of each and every twitch and change on Wilson's face, softened into a small smile. With the addition of the third finger, Maxwell started stroking Wilson's cock too, and that was, once again, almost immediately too much. There was something positively devlish about the man's hands, about the way those thin, soft fingers curled around Wilson's member and seamlessly slid along it, barely even touching it and yet eliciting a wave of velvety sensations that made the pleasure in his rear seem almost negligible. Wilson moaned loudly, grabbing Maxwell's wrist to still him.  
  
"Keep it down." Maxwell warned him, without any real bite. He did stop stroking his erection though, and Wilson, feeling more than ready, decided to avoid that he might be tempted to resume. He rolled on his stomach, conveniently shielding his dick from further overwhelming attentions between a soft layer of fur and his own body. He waited, legs spread to grant Maxwell full access, back slightly bent as he supported his upper torso on his forearms. As inviting as he knew he looked, he was expecting Maxwell to pounce on him without a second thought, but it didn't happen. After a few seconds of puzzling silence, Wilson turned to look at him and, Lord, Maxwell was staring at the center of his back, giving him that look. Wilson had no idea what wondrous events might be unfolding somewhere between his sixth and his twelfth thoracic vertebra to warrant that sort of attention, but Maxwell was staring at him, as he occasionally did, with the expression a collector who's beholding the most desirable piece of artwork in a gallery - if said piece of artwork was also edible and highly palatable, somehow. There was really no other way to describe it.  
  
"...You may be right, you know. It was a foolish idea." He murmured, resting his hands on Wilson's loins and slowly sliding his palms upwards, until they curled around the angles of his shoulder blades. "It just occurred to me that I may have accidentally deprived myself of many exquisite views, in my short-sighted search for aesthetic appeasement."  
  
It took Wilson several moments to recall their earlier conversation about magical clothing shenanigans. It felt like it had happened hours before; maybe it had. Once again, words failed him, but luckily Maxwell wasn't expecting a reply. He ran his fingers along Wilson's spine, following the clear trail of his spinous processes, up and down, leisurely, repeatedly, eliciting a wave of small shivers that made Wilson squirm under his touch. He kissed him too, starting from the dip of his lumbar curve and climbing up all the way to his shoulders, lavishing small pecks all over the espanse of Wilson's back. He didn't stop there either, moving Wilson's hair out of the way to mouth wetly at the back of his neck, and on its sides, his hot breaths and tongue going so far as to tease the shell of his ear, his arms comfortably wrapping around the shorter man's torso.  
  
Wilson had been surprised to discover, months before, what an unexpectedly attentive lover Maxwell could prove to be. Even though he seemed to make a point of showing the whole extent of his selfishness and utter lack of human sympathy on at least seven distinct occasions per day, he rarely treated sex as a mere mean to achieve quick and strictly personal satisfaction. Wilson couldn't recall a single one of their encounters that had seen him any less than utterly sated and pleased by the end of it, often way beyond his own expectations, and, in all honesty, that wasn't just because of Maxwell's altruistic good heart. One had to be blind, deaf and severely inebriated to miss the sheer pride that oozed out of his every pore when he managed to coax a lewd moan out of his partner, or when he could read the raw need in his trembling limbs. Whether by innate talent or by acquired skill, Maxwell had a knack for guessing exactly what his audience wanted from him, and an equally developed passion for delivering exactly that, and some more. However, his formidable instincts seemed temporarily off the mark, or he must be deliberately ignoring them entirely, since his ministrations, albeit appreciated, delightful, alluring, flattering, tantalizing, arousing, artful, and another dozen of similarly poignant adjectives, were decidedly not what Wilson was craving in that exact moment. Rather prosaically, the object of Wilson's most immediate desires was stiffly poking against his buttocks, now and then, close but not quite exactly where it was supposed to be. It was ungodly distracting.  
  
"...Maxwell." He exhaled shakily, when Maxwell pinched his nipple while also sucking at an especially sensitive spot on his neck. He did not beg, most certainly not, although he didn't think he was entirely above that either, as a matter of principle. Maxwell just needed a friendly pointer in the right direction, which Wilson was more than happy to provide. And indeed, that was all he needed to say for Maxwell to move a hand between them, taking ahold of himself and nudging his own erection - yes, thank God, _finally_ \- right against his entrance. It occurred to Wilson, very suddenly, that in the whole night he hadn't even touched the damn thing once - hell, he had barely managed to take a good look at it. Very poor planning on his part, he would make sure to rectify his mistake later-  
  
They both instinctively held their breath when Maxwell slid in. It didn't hurt, not exactly, not any longer, but it was still a positively overwhelming sensation, more than just physically. There was something about the very concept of anal sex that still resulted deeply offensive to Wilson's most deeply-rooted sense of modesty, as well as to a wide range of his theoretical and practical academic knowledge. Fortunately, his waning reservations couldn't hold a candle to the wealth of discoveries he had made in the process of exploring said topic, and there were precious few things that Wilson valued more than knowledge. Most notably, the discovery of how undescribably rewarding it could be to offer himself so freely and completely to another man, and to be granted the same type of trust and enjoyment in return. Sexual intimacy, per se, wasn't new for Wilson, but his past experiences had never been... quite like that. He wasn't sure how or why, but none of the tepid memories of his past encounters could remotely measure up to how emotionally meaningful and, admittedly, carnally fulfilling his current relationship with Maxwell was. Those two factors alone were more enough to justify, at least in Wilson's book, much worse misconducts than the kind of harmless mischief a couple of deranged gentlemen could accomplish in the privacy of their own quarters.  
  
Maxwell waited, still and silent, head comfortably slotted in the crook of Wilson's neck, his measured breaths tickling the scientist's ear. Wilson waited too for his thoughts to gather after their little detour, and eventually he turned his head to the side and kissed the corner of Maxwell's mouth. They kissed again, for the millionth time, and it was just as delightful as the first. He squirmed under the other's body, testing himself, feeling the hardness shift slightly inside him, odd but not unpleasant, and reached behind to lightly squeeze Maxwell's hip. His lover moved then, starting to thrust with slow, regular, round motions, that Wilson regretted not being able to see, because if they looked just half as sensual and voluptuous as they felt, what a spectacular view he must be missing. He closed his eyes, letting that intense rhythm dictate the motions of his body as well, the cadence of his breathing, the involuntary tension of his muscles, the faint rocking against Maxwell's groin. He let his mouth part slightly when the thrusts became deeper, firmer, when the kisses along his neck and jaw resumed, hungrier. He did not bother to restrain a moan, many moans, when an increasing number of thrusts touched him just in the right place, just in the right way, to make his toes curl and his whole body shudder in sheer delight.  
  
"Keep it down." Maxwell repeated, a hoarse whisper right against his ear. Wilson could feel his pleasure too, his racing heartbeat thumping against his back, his harsh pants warming his cheek, the increasing force and speed of his pushes, now smacking somewhat audibly against his backside. If only Maxwell put that much vigour into chopping trees, he couldn't help but think, every single goddamn time, and every single goddamn time the thought would make him smile. He gripped Maxwell's hip tightly, encouraging him further, and his other hand palmed its way to cup Maxwell's nape, holding him close, closer, whispering inconsequential nothingness to him. Without warning, Maxwell's hand wormed its way beneath him, straight past his stomach and around his cock. He grasped it and tugged at it and, Lord in Heaven, he did _that thing_ , that unbearable thing that started with a half flick of his wrist and finished with an unfathomable movement of his fingers that made Wilson simply _see stars_ -  
  
Wilson positively squealed, but only for a moment, because Maxwell's other hand instantly clamped his mouth shut, sending the rest of Wilson's breath crashing down into a suppressed throaty groan. More groans followed, and whimpers, and few other selected noises his now restricted airways were capable of producing, while Maxwell's grunts were starting to grow more audible too. Wilson held onto the other man desperately, feeling his own pleasure build up exponentially with every maddening stroke of Maxwell's hand and every push of his loins, inching closer and closer to his climax, begging for it - begging now, yes, at least in his head - craving it-  
  
His pleasure exploded in Maxwell's hand, thick, hot, sticky. He tensed from head to toe, digging his nails in his lover's hip and neck and drawing the most erotic grunt out of him. He trembled and shuddered for what felt like an eternity, wrecked with the wonderful throes of orgasm, while Maxwell kept thrusting into him, chasing his own release with single-minded drive, until he eventually came as well with a groan that this time, curiously, sounded almost pained. Wilson shook anew as he felt the other's semen fill him, and no, not with disgust, that would have been an easier explanation, surely a more dignified one. They collapsed in a panting heap of trembling limbs, both sated and exhausted, slowly catching their breaths.  
  
Eventually, when the delectable fog of the afterglow cleared from Wilson's mind, he became reacquainted with the pleasant weight of Maxwell's body on his own, now wholly relaxed and quiet. His hand was still loosely draped over Wilson's mouth, and the scientist idly kissed his palm, flicking his tongue lazily between his fingers. Said fingers slowly animated in response, and they took to trace the outline of his lips and the prickly stubble around them, softly. Wilson hummed and then, cruelly, Maxwell just sat up, interrupting that most congenial moment. It turned out he had decided to fetch a rag, which he used to wipe the traces of their activities from their bodies as well as, if not especially, from the fur roll that Wilson had accidentally marred. Not that it was a bad idea, per se, but Maxwell's fastidiousness really tended to manifest at its peak in the least suitable moments. Eventually the unsightly stains were cleaned and a warm blanket was thrown on them, and Wilson was kind enough to forgive Maxwell's poor timing, rolling on his back and welcoming him properly in his arms.  
  
"How on Earth do you do that?"  
  
"Do what?" Maxwell asked, and Wilson gestured, very poorly, as if to grab an invisible member, and then gave it a dubiously pleasurable tug. Maxwell couldn't help but snort. "Oh, that. It takes practice. Months of practice. Years, even."  
  
"You don't say?" Wilson smiled, giving him a quick peck on his lips and leisurely stroking his chest with his palm. "How convenient. I think I may just have the perfect willing subject for lengthy experimentations."  
  
"How convenient indeed."  
  
Minutes passed, or maybe hours, as he idly kept caressing the other man. Maxwell's eyes had long since closed, but Wilson didn't quite feel sleepy, despite everything. There was something nagging at him, something both inconsequential and very, very important, something he was forgetting to- oh, right, right. He casually slid his hand down from Maxwell's chest, over his abdomen, to his groin, until it finally landed on the precious piece of anatomy he had so ungraciously neglected.  
  
"...Wilson."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"What, in the name of all that is good and holy, do you think you're doing?"  
  
Wilson smiled, giving the soft cock a gentle, loving stroke. "If I may speak frankly, that is an eminently stupid question."  
  
"Don't be daft." Maxwell's eyes finally opened, and the very first thing they did was staring daggers at him. Typical. "I took down a gargantuan beast today-"  
  
"If I understood correctly, all you did was flipping through your book so far from it that you could barely see it."  
  
"I _helped take down_ a gargantuan beast today," he magnanimously amended "and I also just finished thoroughly buggering you. I'm spent. Be still and let me sleep, there's a good fellow."  
  
As a reply, Wilson kicked off the blanket, sat up, and straddled the dismayed man with a wide, wide smile.  
  
"Wilson, seriously, you know that I can't possibly-"  
  
"I know that you have certainly been able to, at least once in the past. I don't like giving up without trying, if I have even a small, real chance of success." Wilson's smiled softened, just for a moment. Then he perked up again as he grabbed Maxwell's dick firmly and gave it a studied tug, surely not quite as effective as what he had in mind, but apparently well-executed enough to make Maxwell's breath hitch. "Now, what's the trick?"


End file.
